


Vignettes

by vintagenoise



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Morning Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:39:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagenoise/pseuds/vintagenoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An archive of short Brallon fics I might write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Technically I don't write bandfics, but I think I approached this (and any other 'bandfics' I might write) as being part of an alternate universe I haven't written yet. It's definitely on my to-do list to write a fic that explores what might have happened if Brendon and Dallon had met much earlier/were both definitively gay, but I haven't sorted out all the details yet. Whether I write that story or not, this (and probably any other shortfics/vignettes I write, unless stated otherwise) will be set in that universe.

"Don't be such a baby."

Brendon sniffles, narrows his red-rimmed eyes, pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "Don't be a jerk."

That's really almost challenging Dallon to do just that, but he just smiles and stirs the soup in front of him. Homemade vegetable soup. His grandmother's recipe. He's been working on it for the past few hours, listening to Brendon cough and groan and sneeze and whine. The kid just can't hold his illness, but Dallon can't say he's surprised. Brendon's tough, but he likes attention. He likes to be rewarded for his toughness. 

"Maybe you can sing for me next week, then," Brendon coughs into his fist, smirking when Dallon turns to glare at him. They're laying down vocal overdubs next week, once the other tracks are set, but only if Brendon feels better.

"We've discussed this over and over," Dallon says stiffly. "I don't want to be frontman. I don't want to sing lead. That's your job and your place in this band, and I respect that."

Brendon just smiles, and even sick, his face flushed a blotchy read, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, that smile still relaxes everything in Dallon, makes him want to smile back. And Brendon shuffles over, presses his warm face to Dallon's shoulder, mumbles, "I appreciate everything you do."

And Dallon chuckles, gently shoves Brendon away. "Don't wipe your nose on my shirt."

The soup is served, and Brendon manages to eat it, though he claims he can't enjoy it while he's sick. But his voice sounds better, and the cough isn't as prevalent anymore, so maybe he can kick this thing before he has to record. He's strong. He's tough. He's performed through worse, and Dallon admires his dedication so much.

They go to watch a movie after dinner, as Brendon sniffles, shifts and tries to get comfortable. Dallon shifts back, then finally rolls his eyes, puts a hand on Brendon's neck. "You can lean into me if you want, Brendon, I don't care."

Brendon makes a face, coughs again. "I can't get you sick. You're recording later this week."

"Basses are direct input, so it doesn't matter if I'm coughing as I play, as long as I play the notes right," Dallon points out, then leans over to kiss Brendon's cheek, pull Brendon's head into his shoulder. "Don't worry about it."

And they're quiet, watching the film. Brendon provides the background noise, labored breathing and sniffles and smothered coughs. After a while, Brendon's hand reaches over Dallon's lap, grips Dallon's hand, interlacing their fingers and squeezing tight. His palm is warm and sweaty, but Dallon smiles. Closes his eyes. Comforts Brendon until he feels better.

Because that's what boyfriends do.


	2. Morning Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this sucks :\ I just wanted to write something small and simple and sweet before I committed to my next big project.

A pale blue streak of light has forced its way through the curtains and onto Brendon’s face. He scrunches his nose, and shifts onto his back, tilting his head away from the intrusive sun, but then he can feel Dallon’s breath on his chin, and his eyes flutter open. 

Dallon is still asleep, having been spared the rudeness of morning, and Brendon is still groggy, his head stuck in the place between dreams. It’s hard to pull Dallon’s face into focus, especially when it’s greyed by early shadows, so Brendon places his fingertips to Dallon’s cheek, feels the warmth of his skin, and smiles. Reality is warm and dreams are fading, and Brendon snuggles in closer, pressing his lips to Dallon’s neck, sliding his hand under Dallon’s shirt. 

Dallon is always so warm. He radiates with it, a glowing smile and those brilliant blue eyes. Brendon pulls his lower lip between his teeth, nuzzling his nose against Dallon’s jaw; whenever they go out, he can feel those eyes on him from across a crowded room, demanding his attention, only to playfully flit away when he finally concedes. That’s what their entire relationship is built on: teasing, playfulness, meeting halfway only to step back at the last moment. 

It’s Saturday morning. They don’t have to work today, and Brendon briefly entertains the notion of going back to sleep right here, buried in Dallon’s chest, but there’s a low burn roiling in his belly now, and they have all day to sleep if they want. Giving Dallon a very special wake up call would be fun.

Brendon returns to Dallon’s neck, nibbling gently as he fondles Dallon over his boxers, and Dallon hums softly, pushes his hips into Brendon’s touch, but his eyes stay closed, his breathing steady. That won’t do at all, so Brendon tugs Dallon’s shirt up, kisses the exposed skin just above Dallon’s navel, feels the muscles twitch in response, but Dallon still doesn’t wake. Even as Brendon licks at his stomach, breathes into his pubic hair, Dallon’s cock starts to harden, but he still sleeps like the dead. Brendon rolls his eyes. This is what he gets for dating older men. 

So he decides to step it up a little, freeing Dallon’s prick, gripping it in his fist, dragging wet lips over his length. Finally, Dallon jerks, his hand twitching, and when Brendon takes the head in his mouth, sucking gently, Dallon chokes on air and lifts his head to stare at Brendon. Good. Brendon takes him in a little deeper, hums low and lazy, and Dallon’s head falls back, his fingers clutching the sheets. Very good.

After a moment, Brendon moves to rest his forehead in the hollow of Dallon’s chest, dragging his hand back up Dallon’s side, dragging the shirt along with it. Dallon complies, allowing Brendon to remove his shirt, but there’s a question in his eyes, and Brendon kisses that away too. That warm skin, now flushed pink, is addictive, and Brendon does what he can to make Dallon shudder and tremble, and Dallon’s smart enough not to question a good thing.

Lips meet in the first kiss of the morning, and Dallon’s grip on the back of Brendon’s neck ensures that it lingers, even as Brendon’s hand stays busy, pawing at Dallon’s balls, a dry fingertip pressing against his entrance, and Dallon’s breathing hitches. Bingo. 

“Please,” Dallon gasps, and Brendon grins. When they met, when Dallon appeared so tall and gangly and goofy and shy, even when they started fooling around and Dallon proved himself a rather talented lover, Brendon would never have guessed his blue-eyed boy was so into getting fucked. They wasted so much time focusing on Brendon, and yes, of course that’s good too, it’s amazing really, but there’s a whole new plane of intensity involved when it’s Dallon’s turn, and Brendon can feel it shifting now, as he pushes his fingertip past the resisting ring, and suddenly Dallon’s whole body goes tense. His breathing is rapid, his pulse is pounding, and he whines softly, hips restless. “Brendon, _please_.”

All this over a fingertip. “Shush,” Brendon kisses his mouth, removes his hand in order to finish removing Dallon’s boxers. “I’ve got you,” and slides out of his own pajama pants and underwear in one movement, tossing their clothes out of the way. Dallon waits impatiently, shifting down the bed as Brendon takes his time getting the lube from the bedside table. It’s funny, almost, how Dallon gets. He’s reaching for Brendon’s wrist, pulling him in for another kiss, but Brendon refuses. When Dallon whimpers in protest, Brendon only smirks, running a hand through his hair. 

“Patience is a virtue, kitten,” he croons, laughing when Dallon pouts.

“I just want a kiss.”

“You want a lot more than that.”

This time, Dallon smiles back, and Brendon decides to grant him the kiss he wants so badly. While Dallon is distracted, Brendon pops the lube open, and only moves away to slick up his fingers. Now Dallon’s face is flushed, his pupils blown like a cat focused on its prey, and Brendon presses one wet finger to Dallon’s hole, enjoying the way he squirms. 

“Please,” Dallon begs again, his hand gripping at Brendon’s hair. Brendon hums thoughtfully, running his finger in a circle.

“I dunno,” he says, “I don’t know if you really want this from me.”

Dallon looks flabbergasted, sputtering for a moment before finally spitting out, “I... _want_... it, when have I _not_ wanted it?”

“Oh, I know you want it,” and Brendon finally pushes his finger inside. Dallon sighs, because something is better than nothing, and attempts to encourage Brendon to move faster. Brendon holds to his slow slide, however, and leans in to kiss Dallon’s chest. “I’m just not sure if you want it from _me_.”

“What-” Dallon gasps at the presence of Brendon’s tongue on his nipple. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Brendon doesn’t respond right away. He takes his time, humming casually as he kisses the hollow of Dallon’s chest and slides another finger in, and Dallon fidgets and jerks and whines because he just can’t stand it. He never can. 

“Well,” Brendon finally answers, lifting his head and lazily thrusting his fingers into Dallon, almost as if it were a household task, as normal as washing the dishes. “I caught you checking out that guy at the store yesterday...”

Dallon groans, closing his eyes and pushing his head into the pillow. “Bren,” his voice strains, pleading, “please.”

“I mean, I guess I don’t mind if you look at other guys,” Brendon continues agreeably, his fingers still probing at Dallon’s hole. “I just wish you wouldn’t be so... so _conspicuous_ about it.”

“Don’t-” Dallon gasps, then continues in a rush, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, what guy, Brendon, please, just a little more-!”

But Brendon just sighs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t lie to me,” he chastises, removing his hand so he can better situate himself between Dallon’s legs. “Like I said, I don’t mind if you stare.” He finds the lube again, ensures his own cock is slick enough to do the job, then leans forward, teasing at Dallon’s entrance. “As long as you come home with me, it’s okay.”

“I... I don’t-” and Dallon can’t finish his thought, because Brendon finally pushes in just then, and Dallon’s hands move to his back, gripping at his skin. It’s a slow and agonizing slide, but Brendon does that on purpose, just to draw out that moment where Dallon’s eyes are rolled back, his mouth open but silent. This is usually when it all changes, the air and the intensity, and Brendon pauses just for a moment to prompt:

“You don’t what?”

Dallon breathes slowly, and closes his eyes. Brendon pushes all the way in, then goes still.

“I don’t look at other men,” Dallon finally manages, moving one hand to Brendon’s face, then up into his hair, and Brendon surrenders to another kiss.

“I know,” he answers, and Dallon groans, because Brendon has started moving his hips, with deep, calculated thrusts. each intended to hit a specific place, at a specific time. Dallon’s hand grips at Brendon’s hair, tugging at it, and Brendon, panting, fighting to keep the upper hand, leans in to kiss him again. 

The light from the window has shifted into a bright yellow, and Dallon is quiet but thrumming, his eyes closed and face scrunched as if he were trying to concentrate on nothing but Brendon’s movements. Maybe that’s how it gets to be so easy to ascend here, to this state of being where it’s just the two of them in the whole world. Brendon makes a soft noise, and starts to sit up to adjust his angle, only for Dallon to grip at his neck, pull him closer, keeping his lips accessible. Kisses are exchanged. Brendon nibbles at Dallon’s lower lip, moving down his neck, and Dallon whines softly.

Dallon signals the beginning of the end by leading Brendon’s hand to his cock, and Brendon complies, sitting up slightly to give himself more room to move, the chance to speed up his hips, and Dallon falls apart as soon as Brendon touches him. Whatever composure he’s had up through now, it’s gone, and he’s squirming, gasping, moaning, digging his nails into Brendon’s back. And Brendon grunts, tilting his head back, because he’s about to lose all his control and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, not until Dallon-

“Dal,” he swallows, “you gotta... come on, baby.”

Dallon just pushes his hips up, groaning, dragging his nails down Brendon’s arm, and Brendon chokes on a breath, slipping his grasp on Dallon’s waist. 

“Come on,” Brendon eggs him on, lowering his head again, to focus on Dallon’s cock, milking it, “Come on, come on, come on, just come on-”

He twirls his thumb around the head, and Dallon comes, his head thrown back, his grip digging into Brendon’s forearm, pulling so hard that Brendon loses his balance and falls. Brendon manages to keep thrusting, because it’s all he can do, keep fighting for it, keep heading towards the end that’s so close now, and Dallon’s lips press to his temple, his cheek, his ear, a silent form of gratitude, and Brendon comes, muffling his groan in Dallon’s shoulder.

The world rebuilds itself around them. Big bed and sunlight and birds outside and the radio alarm chooses just that moment to switch on, trying to wake them several minutes too late. Dallon laughs, cupping the back of Brendon’s head and keeping him close. Brendon smiles into Dallon’s skin, and traces a finger down his chest. Sweat and skin and smiles. The day is ready to begin.

The truth is, they are not one of those couples that can’t keep their hands off each other. Not typically, anyway. They can go to their separate jobs and do their work without texting each other every hour of every day. They can come home and have casual conversations and make tough decisions. They can go out and run errands and have dates and hang out with friends without being obnoxious or awkward. 

And yet even without these things, Brendon is still confident enough in Dallon’s love that he can joke about a wandering eye he knows Dallon doesn’t have. Dallon, for his part, knows he should play along, but can’t force himself to do so. He can’t even pretend there’s anyone he would rather be with, even for just one night. And, secretly, behind all the jokes and certainty, Brendon is glad. Because the same is true for him.   
They don’t need to convey those feelings constantly. These moments are enough.

**END**


	3. Open Mic Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon's a performer at Open Mic Night, and Dallon is always there.

Dallon comes here every Thursday night at 8pm sharp, dressed in a red jacket and black slacks. He greets the bartender by name, orders a Dr. Pepper, cheerfully refuses a harder drink when it's offered, and takes his glass to the table nearest the makeshift stage set up by the jukebox. The waitresses and bartenders always gossip among themselves, discussing whether or not Dallon works for a record label, if he's an agent searching for new talent... but no one ever gets up the courage to ask. 

Open Mic Night starts at 8:30pm, and lasts until 10, if the bar has enough talent lined up. It's usually the same rotation of local artists: a teenager who beat-boxes video game themes; a string quartet that can't seem to stay in time; a singer/songwriter whose lyrics are so aggressively political that people tend to get up and leave whenever he comes on stage. 

And Brendon. 

Taking into consideration that this is only an Open Mic Night at a small bar off the highway, Brendon still tends to be fairly popular. This isn't to say he has fans -- Dallon is the only person who comes to the bar just for Open Mic Night. Most of the other patrons ignore the shenanigans on stage. But Brendon attracts people's attention, gets them to dance, and garners applause, which is more than can be said for some of the other acts. The staff likes him so much that they take the effort to ensure that Brendon always goes on-stage last, so they have an excuse to give him more time to perform. He's the kind of kid that should have his name in lights, but will probably never get much farther than what he's doing now. 

And Dallon, whatever it is that Dallon does, whatever it is that brings him here on Thursday nights, he just sits there and drinks his Dr. Pepper until the stagelights go off. No one knows what he's thinking. If they did, they might understand him better.

You see, Dallon is nothing special. He works freight in a rather large music store, then goes home and does data entry until late at night. He manages to make just enough money to get by. Thursday is the only night he allows himself to take off, and he spends that night here. For Brendon. They've never spoken. Dallon's seen Brendon at his music store, but since he only works freight, he's never had the chance to interact with him. He's not sure what he'd do with the chance anyway. A handsome boy like that? Dallon's mouth goes dry just thinking of exchanging hellos. Brendon seems to recognize him from the stage and smiles in his direction now, and Dallon can barely stand the way that makes him feel.

After the show, after another twenty minutes of Brendon's strong voice and sweet words and bright smiles, Dallon goes to pay his tab, only for someone to nudge him out of the way and declare, "I've got him tonight!"

"Big spender!" the bartender teases, but Dallon goes still when he recognizes his benefactor: Brendon, grinning up at him, a twenty dollar bill in hand.

"You're always here, so it's the least I can do," Brendon says, and is even kind enough to leave a decent tip. "What's your name?"

Dallon still isn't convinced this isn't a dream, so his only response is to stare a little longer. It's the bartender who shakes his head and intervenes: "His name's Dallon. He comes to a bar to drink Dr. Pepper, so you know he's a little weird."

Brendon laughs, but Dallon only blushes, finally tearing his eyes away from Brendon's smile to stare at the floor. "Hey," Brendon nudges him again, slinging his guitar case over his shoulder, "walk me to my car?"

No. No, no, no, he'll slip in the snow and fall on his ass, or say something stupid and never be able to show his face here again, no, Dallon should absolutely say no.

Instead, he nods his head, and follows Brendon's lead.

They're silent, at first. Brendon tugs his hat down over his ears, rubs his arms over his jacket, and whistles, the sound soft amongst the snow and chill. Dallon just watches him, still uncertain, listening to the crunch of their footsteps. He's glancing at Brendon out of the corner of his eye, so stunned he can barely feel the cold. Finally, after a few fidgety seconds of working up his courage, he manages to say, "Hello." 

And promptly stops walking, because seriously. _Seriously_. The moment for greetings is long past, and really, he is so dumb, but Brendon turns and smiles at him.

"So you _can_ talk," muses Brendon. 

Dallon sighs, "Sorry."

They stand alone in the snowy lot, Dallon's hands in his pockets, Brendon's arms crossed over his chest. Noise from the bar still permeates the air, cheers and laughter, and Brendon tilts his head.

"I see your face here every week. I was curious as to why."

Dallon shuffles his feet, studies his footprints. "I... I like. Your music," he mumbles, and blushes bright pink. "Or I just like music. Maybe. I dunno. No. I, I definitely like your music."

Another long moment passes before Brendon smiles again. "At least someone does." He turns to keep walking, but loses his footing on the first step, and Dallon darts forward to catch him before he can fall and hurt himself. After catching his breath, and righting himself, Brendon laughs again and presses his gloved hand to Dallon's face. "My hero."

Dallon's pretty sure he could pass for a stop light right about now. "No problem," he whispers.

Brendon leads the way to his car, and tosses his guitar in the backseat before gesturing for Dallon to come closer. Dallon obeys, and Brendon reaches over to adjust the collar of Dallon's jacket. "Why are you so shy?"

Dallon shrugs, still staring at the snowy ground.

"Are you always like this?"

No. Not at work, where he has a few friends, or at home, where his elderly neighbors rely on his help to take care of their home. Dallon takes a deep breath, closes his eyes before answering honestly: "Only around you."

Brendon smiles at him, placing his other hand on Dallon's face. "That's okay," he sighs, "I'm impulsive enough for both of us."

And before Dallon can even begin to compute what's just been said, Brendon's pulled him into a playful kiss, and warmth explodes from his lips, through his face, all the way through his toes and fingertips. After a second or two of floundering, Dallon finally rests his hands on Brendon's waist, then pulls him closer, as possessive as he dares to be. Brendon's hands slide into his hair, just as Brendon pulls away, a pleased smile on his face.

"I knew that'd wake you up," he chuckles, nuzzling his nose against Dallon's. Dallon exhales slowly, and allows himself to laugh along.

"That was... yeah," Dallon grins, and Brendon's thumb brushes the side of his mouth. "I didn't expect that to happen, that was kind of awesome."

"Well, glad you enjoyed yourself," Brendon responds, and the way he leans into Dallon's touch is so trusting and affectionate and reassuring, and Dallon doesn't want to wait a whole week for this to happen again. He doesn't want to wait another second.

"Let's get dinner," he says in a rush. "On me. I'll pay. My turn." Brendon blinks, surprised, then laughs. 

"Did I just create a monster?" Dallon grins sheepishly, shrugging. "I guess I don't mind. You have a sweet smile."

Brendon pulls away, opens the passenger door for Dallon, then slides in on the driver's side. "Where to?" he asks, as he removes his gloves, starts the car, adjusts the heater.

Dallon hesitates, then takes Brendon's hand in his own, feels the cold skin against his palm. 

"Anywhere," he smiles. "Anywhere is good."


End file.
